


Pretty White Skirt

by secondhandact



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Begging, Bondage, Crossdressing Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, M/M, Rough Sex, Tentabulges, and Karkat puts him in his place, in which Dave is a slut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2018-06-09 15:58:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6913753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondhandact/pseuds/secondhandact
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He's happiest when you're moaning for him, and there's nothing better than being his perfect slut in a pretty white skirt.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty White Skirt

Your name is Dave Strider, and you're currently on your knees.

This in itself isn't really that remarkable. when Karkat Vantas had stepped into your life, he'd revolutionized the concept you'd ever had of what sex could be. Occasionally, you still get dizzy just thinking about how fucking fantastic it can feel to be on your knees with genetic fluid smeared across your face. You'd taken to being his submissive like a fish to water, and you're coming to really love being the center of his attention. Right now, though, your Master isn't paying attention to you—he has, in fact, been _ignoring_ you almost from the moment you'd stepped into his room today.  
  
The door had closed behind you and you'd been hit with a faceful of vinyl and been instructed to strip. Once you were outfitted in the too-short white skirt and white thigh-highs, he'd shackled your arms together behind your back, locked your collar in place and placed your shades back onto your face. (Which is new. Normally, you're not left with anything to remind you of who you are outside of this room.) You'd been instructed to _be still, be good,_ and he'd driven you down to your knees before retreating to his desk. That was two hours ago.  
  
He's still across the room, fiddling with his laptop ( _husktop,_ he'd hiss) and muttering under his breath. It's reaching a point where you're wondering if he remembers that you're there. It's inconsequential, though. Sometimes, you get a kick out of riling him up, but your back still stings from the last time you'd decided to be 'fiesty', and you're not sure if you can handle another round of that just yet. He'd whipped you until your nerves had sang and you sobbed for release. So you remain on your knees, as still as possible, despite the fact that the stance he'd set you in keeps your knees so far apart that your thighs are trembling with tension. Every last inch of you is swimming with sweet agony and it's got your cock aching between your legs, the skirt barely managing to cover it. You're his. You belong to him. It's not up to you when he takes his pleasure with you. You're desperate for his attention and you _will be still,_ because that's what he'd told you to be. Be still. Be good.  
  
The warm contentedness that comes with submission has settled into your limbs. This is where you want to be.  
  
Karkat growls something under his breath, and you catch your name mixed in with the colorful oaths escaping the troll's mouth. You can feel anticipation curling in your belly, and you shift slightly, twisting to try and relieve some of the ache in your straining limbs so that you can focus enough to try and discern what he's saying. As minuscule as the movement seems to be, it's still enough to make the bell on your collar jingle, the soft noise giving you away.  
  
His gaze snaps up and meets yours, and your throat constricts. You've failed.  
  
You hold his gaze for less than the span of a heartbeat before bowing your head. You aren't supposed to look up, you know that. It isn't your place to meet his eyes, and you're already steeling yourself against the lashing you're sure you're about to receive. You don't see him cross the room, but you can feel it through the floor. He's standing over you in an instant, putting you in shadow, and you swallow convulsively, struggling to keep your cool. You've learned your Master. Most of the time, you know what he wants before he even says it.  
  
"Strider." Through your tinted shades, you can see the leather tip of his whip coiling on the floor. Your mouth is suddenly dry. "I said be still."  
  
Yes, Master." The words come out as the apology they're meant to be. He flicks the whip enough to make the tail jump, and your throat works again. Breaking orders is a flogging. You know it, and he knows you know it. You're painfully aware that the welts on your back are still fresh, and while that _probably_ means he'd be gentle, you don't know if you want to risk it. You remain still. When you don't immediately turn to present your back to him, he growls, the sound a rattling clatter that sends shivers down your spine. Your eyes are stinging with tears you refuse to shed, because you _want_ to be good, you _have_ to be good, and yet—  
  
The whip twitches again. " _Strider._ " Your name has become a warning, and when he steps back you look up into a face that's twisted with anger. Anger at _you_. Anger at you for being a disappointment, for not managing to be good enough to do as he pleased.  
  
You're begging before you can stop yourself, the words tripping over themselves in a desperate rush to get out of your mouth, because you _can't_ handle another whipping right now, you just _can't_. " _Fuck—_ I'm sorry, please, I'm trying to be - to be your perfect slut—" your voice catches on the word, and you whine, softly, somewhere in the back of your throat—"To do what you want, I'm trying to be good, for fuck's sake, I _want to be good,_ want to be whatever you want me to be—"  
  
He lets the whip slip out of his hand and you nearly weep with relief. You must be doing something right, because when he speaks, there's no malice in his tone, and the gravelly sound of his voice is unbearably attractive. "Whatever I want you to be," he muses, curling his fingers through your hair giving a gentle tug. You shiver and now you know the pleats of your skirt aren't hiding anything anymore, because you can feel cool air on your sensitive skin  
  
"Yes," you breathe, waiting for him to yank your head back, because he's going to, he always does—and when he tightens its grip you moan, letting your eyes roll back in your head as you relish in the heady rush that always burns through you when Karkat exerts his dominance. Now that there's no longer the threat of a whipping you can't take you settle back into the role of 'slut' that he likes for you to be in. It's one you fill well—your voice becomes a soft litany of hungry noises, and you're trying not to squirm, because that isn't what he's looking for. Whatever's happening now, he said be still. "Whatever you want, I'm your whore, your slut, and _anything you want_ , just use me." The words lack the desperation of your earlier pleas, which means now they're full of the hungry need pulsing through you. The gasp that you let slip is tinged with a moan, and since you know he's watching your face you lick your lips, trying not to grin when you hear the sharp intake of air between his fangs.  
  
He likes it when you beg, and you know it. He likes watching you lose yourself for him, and you know that, too.

He jerks your head forward, and you're suddenly blessed with a faceful of Vantas crotch, his bulge already twisting under the fabric. You laugh - you can't help it; faced with proof positive that he's _just as into this as you are_ is a relief and an amusement, all at once - and he growls, pushing you away from him with unexpected force. With no way to catch yourself, you fall, sprawling before him, your shades askew. He glowers down at you, eyes narrowing. "I didn't ask for an arrogant pet, Strider," he hisses, but you know that you're going to get what you want, because his fingers are fumbling with the fasten on his pants, and there's still a hunger in his eyes, which remain fixed firmly on you.

The ball is in your court, now that he's looking at you. "No, but you got me, and you know it's what you want." You're trying not to smirk. Once you've caught his attention it's easy to keep. All you have to do is move in the right way and make the right noises.

So you do, twisting on the floor, the fabric of your white thigh-highs shifting over the cool concrete as you arch your hips into the air, a soft moan escaping you. "C'mon," you plead, shivering with the depravity of it all. You'd never do this for anyone else. You would have never _dreamed_ of doing it for someone else before Karkat had shown you what submission really meant, and now you're arching your hips up in the air and wishing to _fuck_ your arms were free so you could run your hands down your thighs and pull at your stockings. Moving for him is hot. Knowing he's watching you is hot. And begging for him is so hot you almost can't stand it. "Come on, _fuck me_ , take that fucking bulge and _fill me up_ , you asshole, your slut needs his fix, needs to be fucked, come on, fucking _do it_ —"

It doesn't take long, once you start begging in earnest. It never does. It's Karkat, and half the reason he owns you is because he can't get enough of you. He's as hooked on you as you are on him. You hate his arrogance and he hates your irony, you love breaking apart for him and he loves making you scream. In an instant he's on you and kissing you, sucking the air out of you with a hungry growl, shoving your skirt up and pushing your thighs apart. He doesn't give you any chance to get accustomed to the awkward positioning before he's _in you_ , his bulge rippling against your inner walls. You're moaning and shuddering beneath him, your elbows digging into your back because you're bound and there's nothing you can fucking do about it. Your Master is there, is all there is, and when the prehensile muscle stretching your hole finds the right spot within you you can't help the choked, keening whine that escapes you. It's the hottest thing you've ever experienced, and no matter how many times you find yourself in this position, with his hips flush against yours and his bulge writhing within you, with you thrusting yourself hungrily against his hips, it will never not be hot. Never be anything but the ultimate high, the best sex you've ever had, and you crave more, _more._

His claws are flipping the vinyl away from your shaft, his fingertips are on your stomach, and you know the sound you make is pitifully desperate. He's all you can think about, and you're his slut, it's his initials on the collar around your neck. "Beg," he instructs.

So you do, your voice a twisted, broken sound made up of whimpering moans and gasping, breathless pants. You beg for everything you can think of, swear that you belong to him, because you do, that you'll do anything he wants you to, even put your ass in the air for someone else if he wants (and oh, _fuck_ the idea of that is so unbearably attractive that you almost come on the spot), and somewhere between promising to always be his good little whore and offering to wake him up with your mouth on his bulge he's wrapped his hand around your cock. He tightens his grip and you lose the ability to speak, helpless to do anything but rut desperately against your Master. The sounds he makes are a chitinous series of growls, and the more you move, the louder he gets, and that's enough to spur you on. then you've lost your ability to speak, to do anything but rock against the troll, the sound of his grunting gasps spurring you on. One hand is hooked in the loop of your collar, jerking your head up, and he's growling your name (except it sounds like _you dirty fucking filthy whore_ , which is what you want to hear) and the sound of it is enough to destroy you—

When you come, it's like discovering heaven, there are stars bursting behind your eyes and your body is on fire. You can feel his fluids coating your insides as you empty yourself over his hand, can feel him go rigid against you. Your cry is still bouncing around the room when he withdraws from you, and you struggle for breath as he brings his hand to your mouth.

You know what he wants before he even says it, and he knows you do. The order comes all the same. "Clean up your mess." Your tongue is already darting out, your eyes fixed on his face. You're thorough, because you know better than to not be. "You're such a dirty fucking slut, Strider," he continues, sounding almost bored, and there's a part of you that purrs in smug delight, because you're _his_ dirty fucking slut, and you own him because of it, just as much as he owns you because he can make you feel like this.

He pulls you upright using the ring on your collar, and you let your head roll forward, your chest still heaving with the effort it takes to catch your breath. He's unshackling you, and you let your arms fall stiffly to your sides, not daring to reach for him. Not yet.

When he rises he pulls at the collar again, and you obediently stand. Your thighs are sticky with the genetic fluid still dripping down them, sanguine staining the fabric of your leggings. Clearly, that isn't the mess he wants you to attend to just yet. He leads you to the desk, and sits down. "Get under there," he growls, "and get to work."

You do. It's going to be a long night, and that's perfectly fine with you.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you're very pleased to be Karkat Vantas's personal whore.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first Homesmut fill. This was my first attempt at writing like this. This was my first attempt at fanfiction.  
> At the request of a certain @technicolorcarbon, I've polished it up and am now re-publishing it, so you can get an idea of how baby!Second used to write.
> 
> I enjoyed writing this and I kinda hope you enjoyed reading it.


End file.
